


Devil’s Advocate

by TwistedViolets



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ben and his tentacles, Deals With The Devil, Drug Use, Grim Reaper! Klaus, Hellhounds, Magic Scythes, Mild Gore, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sibling Rivalry, Soul Selling, Temporary Character Death, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedViolets/pseuds/TwistedViolets
Summary: Sometimes you find yourself in hell and sometimes you sell your soul and other times you take up the position of grim reaper.If you’re Klaus you do all three.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a role play I did with a friend that was literally only two paragraphs. I don’t know how the rest of this happened...I was just inspired I guess??
> 
> I think there’s actually a whole fic about Grim Reaper! Klaus somewhere but I wanted to do my own spin on it. Plus I love hell aesthetics.
> 
> Also low key was slightly inspired by ‘Your a perfect mix of heaven and hell’ by Chocolate_Gay_Man_With_A_Plan. Since the role play was hella started because of subconsciously thinking of it.
> 
> Ah anyway I have no idea what I’m doing with my life but enjoy. I typo checked it a little but this was just for fun so I didn’t stress over it too much. <3

The ground beneath him is cold, fucking colder than ice and just as slick. Though it looks nothing like it, not clear, not light blue, it's hot fiery red underneath a thin layer of frozen water. Which makes the reflection seem to be a rotten red color one might associate with blood.

"Fuck," Klaus spit a mouthful of blood beside him, his ribs aching from every breath he takes. "Where?" He mumbled, attempting to sit upright but finding his hands sliding across the floor and his balance almost off the rails. It's like...it's like he's in a completely different world.

There are pointed rocks that hang down from the ceiling of the cave. They seem as if he moves too fast or happened to fall hard enough they've never pop right off the ceiling and fall right on his head. Great- this is all he needs.

How did he get here? He was fighting against some bad guy...no- he was the lookout and let a bad guy slip by him and Diego got angry at him again. So very angry and what was he supposed to do when Diego started yelling.

Started scolding him, started making him feel small and useless. Diego must have knocked him out, go figure, and this whole thing is just a crazy dream. 

Must be.

He tried to sit up again, now aware of aching around his neck and chin. He tried not to think about it- or the fact that if he's dreaming it shouldn't fucking hurt this bad...but it does. He's on fire.

He digs his nails into the ice, places his feet against the floor, and attempts to stand, only sliding momentarily but he managed to not fall face first. He'd hate to chip a tooth.

"Hello?" He asks although he thinks it's quite stupid to do so...he means- who the hell is gonna hear him? One of his other personalities? Haha.

He slides his way across the floor, being as careful as possible because he's sure one of his ribs must be broken, and he grasps a wall. Slightly hot underneath his hand as he moves along it, following it to an end, one with a bright orange glow slowly twinkling out from something.

One step at a time he makes it there. There to the end, there to what seems to be wooden flooring, there to what seems is a man in a black suit, yellow daisy in his pocket, and a top hat to boot while a pipe is inching its way to his lips.

"Hello?" He said, uncertain as the man inhales and the pipe crackles and then exhales a thin line of smoke. 

"You've been asleep for quite some time, Little one." The man doesn't turn to look at him, instead, his eyes stay focused on a painting on the wall. One of a man with redden skin and horns to match; a depiction of the devil if he's ever seen one.

God, he hates his dreams.

"God?" The man looked toward him with distaste on his tongue. He could tell just from the tone. "You will find that God doesn't care much for anything down here."

"Um...what? Who are you?" Ignoring the fact that the man just read his mind he stumbles into the room and practically collapses at a chair on the other side of a small circular table, one covered in a black laced cloth. The man, sitting opposite him at the table, looks at him with little concern.

"I go by many names and none are ever quite accurate."

Hand on his chest, he rubs, curling into himself when the pain becomes piercing. "I could help you with that...if you'd like. Of course, it comes at a cost."

"And what's that?" He asked, amused that his brain could conjure up such a nightmare.

_“Your soul."_

It sent shivers down his spine, how bone-chillingly deep it sounded. It sounded real, it sounded like a command. It sounded like the calling of death at midnight.

"I...I- no thank you," he said although he doesn't know why...why the hell he was even entertaining the idea that it even mattered. This is all a dream, a nightmare even.

"Really? You won't even consider it. I have even been considering offering you a little job position. I'm sure you'd be extraordinary at...considering you easily fluctuation between the land of the living and the dead."

He blinks a few times before sitting straight up, as much as he can without accidentally killing himself with pain, and he simply takes a deep breath. The man does the same, pipe in mouth, before letting another thin line of smoke out except this time the smoke curls around into the shape of a skull.

He watches it.

It disappears after a moment of staring at him. He almost smiled at the absolutely crazy things his brain comes up with. No wonder he's always doing such stupid stuff, if this is his subconscious what does that make him?

"Aren't you even curious in the slightest? Come on I know you'd love to feel...important."

"...well let's say this isn't all just my subconscious and you're real and I'm like...talking to some dude in a hellish landscape probably near the center of the earth, Why in the world would I want a job from you?"

"The benefits," the man said, tapping his pipe into an ashtray. "Immortality, no more pain, no more hunger, and of course you'd get three wishes at the end of your trial period.Three months to be exact...doesn't that just sound swell?"

He shifted in his seat, the world flickered around him slightly but the man made no note of it as his lips began to form a strange smile. One that seemed too happy...like it spelled chaos instead of happiness.

"What is the job?" He finally asked and he had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

"The Grim Reaper-"

He laughed, he couldn't help it. Just what did this guy- this figment of his imagination take him for? An idiot? As if.

The man glares at him and in a blink of an eye the room turns dark. Completely pitch black and a broken scream echoes from some distant place. All he can do is huddle into his chair, holding on to the only thing he can.

One by one candles light up on the wall, turning the warm wooden cabin feel into buring horror. Skulls curve themselves into the surrounding cave. A few iron bars stick out in random places and the chair he was sitting on transformed into a living breathing dog below him, it's mouth foaming and it's teeth sharp glistening spikes.

He yelps and jumps off the dog and runs a few steps before collapsing on the ground that had suddenly turned slippery again. Cold, yet a hot fire burned underneath that was dying to get out.

"What the hell are you?" He yelled as the dog ran after him, growling at him while nipping at his feet.

"You can refer to me as Lucifer, Mortal. But names are of little importance to me."

The man stood from his own chair and as he walked his eyes glowed red and a searing flame followed his every step. "As you can see this place has gone downhill in recent years. We need new order here, a new hell to be raised from the clutches of God. That's exactly why I need you."

He backed his way straight into a wall, cracking his head off of the stone, causing black stars to flood his vision but he shook them out. "I can't help you...I'm just a-a stupid junkie."

"No...you're prime grim reaper material. You could drag the worst of the worst down here where they could suffer for ten lifetimes. All the people who deserve to be here are always let off the hook by that self-righteous child and I'm tired of it."

Hard edges dig into his back as the man came to stand at his feet. The devil, a monster, and with his hands shaking so much what could he do but smile sheepishly and hope he wasn't murdered.

"I...I'll do it."

The room shifted again, the candles flickered out and he stays there in the dark, the only sound is the dog somewhere drooling. He waits, his legs curling up and against his chest as his stomach curls.

He's going to throw up.

A hand is on his arm and it burns, it shifts- his own skin shifts and rolls and as the lights flickered on again he's come face to face with his own reflection in a mirror. The devil's hand is on his arm and he watches it melt away until all that's left is bone.

He lets out a sharp pained breath despite feeling nothing.

"Do you, Klaus Hargreeves, forfeit your soul in exchange for immortality and power beyond human comprehension."

His words are stuck in his throat, making a lump form. He moved his fingers, the bone moves. He feels sick to his stomach at the sight.

"Yes..."

The devil's hand moved up his arm, through clothes that turned to powder from his very touch. The air is warm against him, the touch feels deep, and all he can do is watch himself become nothing but bones.

After that hand slides down his stomach, he watches as a rib heals itself and the sick curling ceases.

"I'm...this is..."

"Not permanent...You'll keep your human appearance in the human realm."

He is filled with relief, he thinks, but as a hand slides over his head, he feels so...numb. Suddenly he doesn't feel much of anything as he looks into the mirror.

His vision blurs, his eyes roll in his skull as the man comes closer, as the devil blows a red breath into his ears, his eye color shift's to hold a red tint and his vision shifts. He sees blood in the devil's body and he sees thoughts falling from the devil's head.

A burst of sick laughter comes from the devil.

It's the last thing he hears before suddenly he's pulled from the warmth and into a cold ocean. He wakes up gasping, water soaking through his clothes as his father stands over him, bucket in hand tilted to him as he finishes.

He leans over, sputtering, and he feels a few eyes on him. Diego glaring, Allison filled with concern and Ben with something unreadable.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," His father said, as he often did, but now it felt even more chilling to him. "I do hope you have an impeccable explanation for falling asleep during an important mission."

"Sorry," he said groggily, looking over to Diego for a moment before turning back. His father looked down at him with such a heavily glare he's sure he'll be stuck with a lecture for the next six hours plus dish duty.

He hates dish duty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm just because?
> 
> Also gotta add a subplot just incase I actually end up wanting to write a full story...
> 
> Again this is really just a thing I wrote for fun so the typo checking was really relaxed. Sorry!

Dish duty aka the worst ten minutes of his life. It wouldn't be so bad if his father didn't announce his dishwasher position at the beginning of dinner. But he does, every single time, and then his siblings proceed to be assholes about it and leave god awful plates for him to clean.

It's absolutely disgusting! Scrubbing off half chewed up mash potatoes and fighting his way through the mushy cheeseburger. It's mainly Diego's plate that takes the longest, considering Diego just loves to make him suffer.

He soaks the dishes in hot water, scrubs them with a sponge, and then soaks them again. They've got to be spotless or otherwise, his father won't let him finish. His father would probably happily let him scrub until his fingers pruned up like an old man's and fell off.

He grumbles underneath his breath as he finishes a few of the dishes, setting them in the drying wrap to dry. He goes back to scrubbing a dark spot on an unruly plate.

He felt the hot water burn. Burn like someone who was immortal probably shouldn't have felt. And he knew it had to have been some sick dream. All of it. It was just the product of doing too many drugs and taking a hit to the back of the head.

Must have been.

He isn't immortal. He didn't sell his soul for power. He certainly didn't coward on the floor like a baby. If his father knew that he'd be dead, really really dead.

Father can't have any cowards.

He finishes the dishes; feeling very much a mortal, and quite honestly he doesn't trust himself enough to test out that theory. Although it felt real, although he could feel so much, he can't trust it.

He can't believe in the make-believe.

...

He went for his shower, digging a towel out from underneath the sink, tossing it on the sink. He rolled his back and found little pain as if he had really been cured of such a feeling. Then he starts to undress, a yawn coming on, but he bites down on it. 

His skin is pale on his chest and as he finishes getting undressed he turns to get in the bath, only something catches his eyes in the mirror and he stops dead in his tracks. On the back of his upper neck is a red star-no-pentagon.

His right hand wanders to it, his fingers going to trace it but they only graze it for a mere moment before he's pulling them away with a clear pained whine. 

It fucking burned!

But he doesn't feel it on his back, despite how fucking hot it is, he doesn't feel a thing. His mouth gains a cotton taste, drying up, and he can't even take his eyes off of it.

What does it mean? That his dream wasn't a fucking dream? Is it a branding? Like he's someone's property...like his Umbrella Academy tattoo is a representation of him being his father's cattle.

What the hell?

He tries to pretend he's fine. 

He takes a deep breath and draws his eyes away from the mark. He steps into the bath, closes his eyes, and just thinks happy thoughts.

Happy thoughts of the drugs in his room, hidden in his nightstand...so close yet so far away.

...

He smoked a joint when he got back into his room. What else was he supposed to do to calm his nerves? He ended up rolling in his bed in some happy trace for hours probably until he fell into a fitful slumber.

A slumber full of things he doesn't want to think about. Dead people, the mausoleum, and of course those times he couldn't wipe the makeup off his face fast enough.

...

He doesn't know why he wakes up. It isn't like the alarms going off or he hears Allison and Luther's giggles. It's just a strange peacefulness the house usually didn't have. Probably so unusual that his body associated it with danger.

"Nice home you've got here," a familiar voice said and his heart practically sunk into his chest.

"How-" he started, sitting upright, staring at a figure rubbing his hands over his stuff. Through the boom box, around the chairs, over the walls. 

"What part of I'm Lucifer don't you understand? I certainly don't have to play by mortal rules and knock on the door...although now that you mention it that'd be interesting!"

"No," he hissed rushing off the bed just in time to stop the man from pushing play on the boom box. God his dad would absolutely kill him. "You can't do that! It's like three in the morning."

"Four actually."

"Exactly."

Lucifer sighs before his hands wrap around his shoulders. "What are you? Afraid of some mortal higher ruling? That really breaks my heart..." Lucifer grips his arm, lips curling into a deepened frown. "I don't much care for these feelings of cowardice from you. In case you've forgotten, I've got your soul now so technically speaking your life is mine to do with as I please which includes playing with your brain until you're not afraid."

"No thank you," he said nervously as he removed the hand from his side, he walked toward his bed with a smile. "I'm tired."

"You're not. The feeling is just an illusion your human mind is conjuring up. In reality, you feel nothing. Now come on Number Four-" it's a shift in tone, it's his name, his name his father always used with distaste and disapproval-"I'll have a nice throne made for you-my new right-hand man. I'm sure you'd much rather have a kingdom in hell than be a peasant in another's."

Hands across his chest, he stares down at his bed. His brain tells him he's tired, his eyes flutter, but maybe underneath all that he can actually feel something else. A secret flame that is drawn to that offering.

"Shut up," he hissed, his own dull nails digging into his arms. "Why are you even here."

"Well, I thought I'd help you with your first job. You left quite abruptly and I didn't get the chance to equip you properly." Then in Lucifer's hand appeared a small baton and with a simple flick of his wrist, it expanded into a scythe that gleamed with moonlight. 

He stumbled back, just a mere step or two, and gazed upon it. "Now about that fear thing-"

"I'm not afraid." he blurted, shaky voice and all. And Lucifer looked towards him for a moment before laughing, tossing the scythe towards him. He catches it, barely, he's sure he lost a few hairs.

"If any mortals touch this who haven't been assigned the position they will burn, so keep it up won't you? I don't want to fill out any incident reports with the child upstairs. She's quite the mouthy-one."

"Right-um," he can't help but be drawn to it all, human curiosity and all. So he swings the blade around, briefly before it accidentally leans towards his bed and then he struggles and ends up cutting a straight line through his blanket. "That's just practice," he laughs nervously and the man with his eyes so piercing doesn't laugh back.

_Knock_

It almost makes him jump. He quickly fiddles with the scythe and finds a button on the bottom that brings it back to its small baton shape. He rolls it underneath his bed before turning to the man who doesn't even appear to register the knock.

"Klaus?" It's Ben's small and feeble voice.

"You've got to hide!" He said, panicking and the man just shrugs.

"Mortals can't see me."

The door opens and Ben peers inside, eyes glistening. "Who are you talking to?" He asks as he steps inside, hands across his chest in discomfort. 

"No one Ben," he whispered, coming close to Ben, wrapping his arms around him, embracing him, and Ben simply melts into his hold. "What's wrong?" He asks but he knows and he's just letting Ben make up the truth.

If Ben doesn't want to say that's fine.

"Um...Klaus I- the Horror is being really bad tonight I don't know why-"

"Shh," he shushes Ben, pulling him back on his bed to lay down, so they can simply cuddle as they always did when one of them had a nightmare.

"Ah," Lucifer comes to stand at the edge of the bed, peering down at them. "This one doesn't have much time left."

It made him cough and wheeze as he chokes on his own saliva. What does he mean Ben doesn't have much time left? Is Ben...is Ben going to die? He can't. Ben can't die yet.

Lucifer gives a smile before walking away. "I'll be back tomorrow night to take you for your first job. Do be ready I don’t have much patience for human matters,” he walks into a redden flash of light and he's gone.

He holds Ben closer, feeling the small wiggle turning into a wave until the tentacles burst forth from his clothes, ripping a hole through the chest and they wiggled in the air, large, gross, and pink.

He stayed still, pasted to Ben's side, so relaxed in order to seem like nothing worth killing. The tentacles eventually calmed when the realized there was no threat, nothing for them to kill, and they slowly curled around him, sliding up his arms, down his back, leaving a fishy-smelling residue he didn't mind.

Ben mumbled an apology.

He holds his brother closer. "It's fine," he said and he meant it. Nothing his brother could even do would need an apology.


End file.
